


Curiosity and the Cat

by nellii



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Were-Creatures, Werecats, no beta we die, this started as crack now its whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23606113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nellii/pseuds/nellii
Summary: Jaskier had always been different from everyone else. Odd, loyal, and a touch too curious for his own good.orGeralt isn't sure what kind of being Jaskier is but one night while hunting a werewolf, his bard's persistence leads to a great deal of trouble.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 49
Kudos: 531





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> if you see spelling errors just pretend they're not there

Geralt wasn’t mutated yesterday. He could smell a nonhuman a mile off, identify them in seconds and know exactly what kind of creature they were- but Jaskier was different. He had always been different. In a continent full of villagers who tossed stones at him, who stunk of fear and hatred, Jaskier followed at his heels like a bright-eyed puppy. Impossible to get rid of yet refreshingly undaunted by the Witcher’s presence. It was a love-hate attraction to the bard Geralt couldn’t wrap his head around. 

He knew Jaskier wasn’t human. But until the bard brought it up on his own accord, Geralt would say nothing, ask nothing, do nothing to press for information. His ancestry and identity were his own prerogative and none of Geralt’s business unless he himself volunteered such an intimate fact. 

Geralt did pick up on some strange behaviours. None of which could tell him just what Jaskier was. There was that string, a long red piece of wool Jaskier never parted with. Sometimes he would be playing with it stretched out between his hands, an intricate game Geralt had no patience to learn. He also had a strange habit of chewing on meadow grass. Nothing unsafe or poisonous, just a casual habit of plucking a blade of grass and sticking it in his mouth like that. And then there were the presents. Maybe bringing dead birds into the camp and leaving them near Geralt’s bedroll was normal for bards. Geralt didn’t know, he’d never had one before. Jaskier always denied it when he brought it up, making nonconfirmational noises and shrugging it off without explanation. 

-

“Stay.” Geralt grunted. He got to his feet and slung his silver sword over his back. He ( _ they _ according to Jaskier, who very much wished to be included) was hunting a werewolf. According to the villagers, it rarely strayed from its den, but was draining the woods dry of prey. Jaskier should be safe if he stayed at their camp. 

“Oh, are we off then?” Jaskier got to his feet. He’d been stretched out beside the fire, eyes closed and enjoying the heat but seemed just as eager to put himself directly in harm’s way. 

“I said  _ stay _ .” Words were of no use, the stubborn bard was already beside Geralt, bright blue irises widening in the dark. Geralt growled in warning before grabbing a handful of Jaskier’s doublet like a kitten’s scruff and depositing him on the bedroll. The man went completely and helplessly limp under Geralt’s grasp. “And don’t move your ass until I return.” Before he got a chance to protest, Geralt slipped into the treeline and disappeared.

The lingering and unpleasant taste of Cat on his tongue, sword in hand, he stepped lightly through the underbrush to avoid making any sound to put his prey on edge. A deep breath in, honing his senses to a needlepoint to pick up on the subtle imprints in the dead leaves and dirt. In this state he could feel everything as harsh as a smack to the face. The chirping crickets were as loud as thunder. The damp scent of death overwhelmed and consumed him. But before him the werewolf’s tracks lit up like lanterns guiding him along a twisting road. The brief discomfort was worth the enhanced ability to track and hunt. 

A sudden snapping sound caused the Witcher to spin around, sword raised and ready to strike. The fleeting adrenaline slipped away. He relaxed his arms, let the tip of his sword rest on the ground. There was no danger here, just a sleek cat mid-step on a broken branch with piercing eyes that reflected the sparse moonlight in twin blue saucers. 

“Hello there, friend.” Geralt let his face soften into somewhat of a smile. He knelt down and offered a hand to the thing. “Gave me quite a fright. What are you up to?” The Witcher spoke more words to a simple farm cat than he had to Jaskier in the past week. The cat stared. Unblinking. Geralt got to his feet again. “Run along, friend. There is danger in these woods.” The feline flicked an ear before slinking into the brambles. Geralt’s gaze lingered where the cat stood for a moment. Vaguely, Geralt caught a whiff of Jaskier’s scent in the still cool air. 

He turned back to the path. Wolves had no business with cats. 

-

When Geralt finally came upon the den, Cat was almost wearing off. “Fuck,” the Witcher groped around in his trouser pocket for another, but found only lint. “Fuck.” 

Very much jealous for his briefly met feline friend’s eyes, Geralt began the descension into the den. The ground squelched underneath his boots. A thick layer of rot and decay was surely staining the worn leather. He’d dealt with werewolves before, but none this messy and careless. Young, or newly transformed. A month at most. Poor thing. But the villagers did not pay to cure the wolf, only to slay it. 

The grimy passageway opened up into a cavern. A liquid puddle gathered in the center. By the smell of it, fresh blood. Animal no doubt. The villagers reported no deaths among their people. 

“Come on out, you bastard.” Geralt let the tip of his sword drag on the stone floor, collecting grime and screaming a terrible racket into the cave. It echoed, bounced, reverberated right back to him. “Let’s get this over with.” 

“ _ Mrrrow _ ?” Came an answering chirrup. Geralt spun. At the entrance to the passageway, a familiar blue-eyed cat stood swishing its tail back and forth. It had it’s little head tilted, and Geralt could almost laugh at the display of curiosity. He’d hate to watch it kill this innocent feline. His face twisted into a frown. He advanced, swishing his sword back and forth. 

“Shoo,” he hissed. “Get out of here.” 

“Mrow? Mrrrrr…” The innocent noise began to distort into a guttural hiss. The cat’s back arched sharply. Hairs stuck up like a porcupine and the thing’s ears flattened back against its head. “Mrrrrr…. Mrrr…” It flicked it’s tail back and forth in a warning. Teeth bared, spitting a hiss at Geralt’s feet. But this fear was not directed at the Witcher, but the enormous beast rising from the ground behind him. 

Geralt should have heard it stir. He should have been able to anticipate the initial attack, dodge and engage with a biting edge of silver. He shouldn’t have been distracted by something like a stray cat who too curiously wandered close to it’s grave. 

The werewolf batted Geralt to the side like a ragdoll. He hit the stone hard and all the air knocked from his lungs. He braced his forearm on the ground and shuddered as he took in a wheezing gasp of breath. The Witcher tensed for pain and forced himself to his feet. He snatched his sword from the ground and held it before him with both hands. 

The werewolf didn’t spare a glance at the Witcher. It roared, spittle flying from its fangs, and lunged at the bristling cat. 

“No-!” Geralt roared and burst forward. He leapt, swinging his blade down to slice through the werewolf’s hide with the full length of his blade. It threw its head back in pain and knocked Geralt off. The warrior landed on his feet and swung once more. The debole of his silver left a nasty gash on the wolf’s hip. It barely reacted. Instead, it raised a paw, razor-sharp nails jutting out and shining in the moonlight pouring in from the passageway, and slashed rapidly downward. The cavern filled with the cacophonous yowl of a gravely pained cat. 

Geralt drove the sword into the werewolf’s back. It ruptured its stomach, tearing through to the other side and spearing the wolf on the poison-like silver. It shook and tried to claw the sword free, before uttering one final cursed howl and dropping dead to the side. 

The moment it hit the floor Geralt’s blood ran cold. Where the cat had once stood fiercely now was a lithe figure curled up on itself, clutching a slashed chest and bathing in an expanding pool of blood. His bard. His Jaskier. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to my buddy Bo on the geraskier discord for writing the first part of this chapter and allowing me to alter and build off of it!

Geralt didn’t even have to think before making his decision. They would have to do it here. It couldn’t wait until they got to camp so they would have to do what they could here before the bard bled to death. Geralt tore the bard’s shirt the rest of the way open to see the damage. A long trio of gouges, only a quarter of an inch deep at most, but the flay had exposed hints of bone.

Geralt slid his knife from his belt. Jaskier’s eyes grew wide as saucers and he began to flail about, upsetting his already serious wounds. Geralt cast Igni away from the bard which heated his belt knife to a yellow glow that quickly cooled to red. He considered giving Jaskier a countdown from 3, but decided he wasn’t going to risk the skittish man bolting and spilling his guts on the forest floor. He took a breath, and then the Witcher pressed it to the wound. Jaskier cried out in agony as the scent of burning flesh filled the air between them.

“I told you to wait!” Geralt snapped, climbing over to straddle the lark before he made him miss. 

For once the man had nothing to say, only blood curdling screams as Geralt stopped the bleeding and grabbed for his intensive wound pouch on his belt. He’d need both hands and for Jaskier not to panic so he unbelted his pauldron and set it over his head like one would throw a blanket over a frightened cat. “Don’t move, and don’t look.” 

A curved needle and tense tendon thread pulled from an alcohol bath started their work under Geralt’s steady hands. To his credit, Jaskier tried not to move at first, but as soon as the needle pierced through flesh he Jaskier whined and cried like the injured animal he was. With each piercing and grating friction of thread through his skin his cries grew more desperate, more pained. Of course, the bard knocked Geralt’s pauldron away and looked down at the wound. His curiosity nearly got him killed and now it cost him his calm.

“Oh  _ gods _ !” He jerked violently away from the needle and made the Witcher miss. 

“Hold still.” Geralt snarled, going back to it without hesitating. 

“I’m gonna throw up-” 

“You better not.”

“Geralt, wait-” The Witcher could do nothing to restrain Jaskier’s arms as he reached over and weakly smacked him on the face. 

“Can’t wait.” 

“No- I-” Jaskier’s neck twisted to the side and he heaved up the few contents of his stomach as well as a great deal of blood and a little bit of grass. Geralt moved back slightly and placed his non-needle hand on the bard’s back. This was of little comfort to either of them. As soon as Jaskier was done, Geralt pounced right back on him and continued the stitching ruthlessly. He  _ wanted _ to be gentle, to cause the bard as little pain as possible, but he was going to go into shock if this didn’t happen fast. 

But he was still too slow. 

Jaskier’s heartbeat began to slow at the same time as his cries turned to nothing more than whimpers. His bright blue eyes began to glass over, gazing dully above Geralt’s head. 

“No,  _ fuck- _ Jaskier-” Flicking his gaze between Jaskier’s paling face and the nearly finished stitches, Geralt realized with a sinking horror that his own hands were starting to shake. He was  _ afraid _ . He tied off the stitches with a tight knot and scooped Jaskier into his arms. His knife, pauldron, medical supplies all discarded on the stone floor. And he ran. 

-

The Witcher was bolting through the forest as fast as he could with another life in his arms. His face was cool with terrored sweat, his breaths uneven and uncontrolled. Panic. This was panic. Jaskier was still as a corpse, his breathing shallow and uneven. He would take in short gasping breaths and then wheeze them out far too quickly to keep his heartbeat stable. Geralt could only pray his heartbeat didn’t stop. 

It all made sense once the answer was laid out in front of him. The red wool string, the peculiar behaviors, even his scent- floral and earthy, a tinge of catnip. How could he not have seen it? Those beautiful blue eyes illuminated by moonlight seemed all too familiar when he’d watched that cat in the woods. That cat, that person, his dear Jaskier now clinging to life all because of one stupid whim. Depending on how the rest of the night played out, Geralt would either never forgive himself or never forgive Jaskier. 

Dogs were good. Dogs stayed on leashes, dogs obeyed when you told them to stay, dogs were intelligent. But not as intelligent as the cat. But the cat would not follow your rules, would not listen to your commands. The cat did as it pleased, even if it meant following your Witcher into a den that stunk of werewolf. Stupid, stupid cat, in the arms of an even stupider wolf. Stupid not to have seen what was clear before him all this time. 

After what felt like hours, Geralt finally found their camp. He deposited Jaskier gently on his bedroll and cast Igni almost carelessly toward the fire. It roared to life and would hopefully soon thaw Jaskier out of his neurogenic shock. 

Geralt stripped Jaskier from the rest of his tattered chemise and replaced it with whatever soft objects he could find. Spare shirts, a deerskin fur, Geralt’s own bedroll, and finally Geralt could hear those weak heartbeats return to a steady, human pace.  _ Not human,  _ Geralt reminded himself.  _ Werecreature. _

He didn’t sleep that night, but stood rigid guard in front of the campsite as blood dried under his fingernails and stained his skin. 

-

Jaskier woke up screaming. His hands scrambled to feel his chest but were snatched at the wrists and held tight.

“You’ll pull out your stitches.” He knew that growl. It washed through him like a drug, calming his racing heart and relaxing his arms. Jaskier fell limp in Geralt’s grasp and allowed himself to take steady deep breaths. “Good.” Geralt released his wrists. 

Jaskier wouldn’t look at him. His head was tilted away, cheek resting on his bedroll and the rest of his body swathed in Geralt’s clothing and furs. 

“I didn’t want you to know.” His voice was hoarse from screaming. 

“I can forget,” Geralt spoke. “We never have to speak of it. Nobody has to know.” 

“No, Geralt. You can’t forget.” Jaskier shrugged out of his coverings and began to sit up. It hurt like hell, all of his muscles shaking and crying out for him to stop, his stitches shifting and body agitated by the sudden movement. Geralt did his best to help, supporting Jaskier’s back with one hand and offering another for him to grab. Jaskier didn’t take it. “And you were bound to find out. I guess I knew that. I just- not like this.” 

“Not like this.” Geralt echoed. 

“And I know what you’re going to say.” Jaskier spoke despite the crackles of his weakened voice, despite the obvious pain it dealt him. “I shouldn’t have followed you, I should have stayed at the camp like you told me, but-” He met Geralt’s stare and he could see tears brimming in the werecat’s sorrowful gaze. “I could smell it, Geralt, I could smell the werewolf and I was  _ so afraid _ it was going to kill you.” He choked out a sob, but it was almost a yelp. He was radiating waves of hurt, of pain. Geralt hushed him. He took him into his arms, let the werecat bury himself in the comfort of his familiarity. 

“Never do it again, Jaskier.” He whispered. “Do you hear me? Never again.” The cat in Jaskier seemed to seek touch. He could barely move but pressed close to his chest, taking in his presence. “Cats are more fragile than wolves.” 

Geralt could feel Jaskier bristle in his arms, anticipating the rumble in his chest that nearly formed a hiss. For a moment, all was back to normal. 

“Fragile my ass, you big lumbering bastard.” 

Geralt pulled away and laid him back down. Jaskier didn’t protest, the effort of sitting up had worn him out. 

“One more thing, Jaskier.”  
Jaskier looked up expectantly.

“No more dead fucking birds in my bedroll.” 

The bard cracked a smile. “Alright. Just mice and lizards, then.” There he was, the bard Geralt knew- almost back to normal. 

“Alright, kitty. Rest.” Geralt moved to stand but Jaskier caught him by the wrist and made a noise of frustration. The Witcher huffed and sat back down. He had a lot to learn about caring for a feline. 

And while curiosity may have killed the cat, satisfaction surely brought him back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmk if u want a third chapter, maybe some epilogue fluff .... and thank you, thank you for the kind comments on chapter 1! my heart is warmed


End file.
